Chapter 46: Visitor
The heavy silence of Dante’s bedroom, broken only by his shallow, even breaths, suddenly fractured. The air pressure dropped, a tangible shift like the moment before a storm breaks. Dabi, still propped against the headboard with Dante’s head resting heavily on his thigh, tensed. He hadn’t heard a door open. One heartbeat the room contained only Dante’s fragile peace and Dabi’s watchful exhaustion; the next, it held him.
Sukuna stood just inside the room, near the tall windows where the city’s neon glow bled through a crack in the curtains. He was barefoot, dressed in dark, loose-fitting pants and a jacket left open over a bare, muscular chest crisscrossed with thick, black tribal markings. Four eyes, sharp and predatory, scanned the scene – the bandaged prince sprawled across Dabi, the exhaustion etched into the younger man’s face, the lingering scent of blood, antiseptic, and spent magic. His presence was a physical weight, ancient and dangerous, yet carrying an unnerving familiarity in this intimate space.
Dabi didn’t jump, but his hand, which had been lightly tracing patterns on Dante’s uninjured shoulder, stilled. His blue eyes narrowed, meeting Sukuna’s crimson gaze. Not hostile, but guarded. Wary. Protecting the vulnerable territory of the sleeping demon.
"Didn't hear you knock," Dabi said, his voice low to avoid disturbing Dante. It wasn’t quite a challenge, but it wasn’t welcoming either.
Sukuna’s lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Doors are a suggestion where family is concerned." His voice was a deep rumble, effortlessly carrying despite its low volume. His gaze flicked down to Dante’s still form. "How’s the patient? Still playing dead?"
Dabi’s jaw tightened. "Passed the fuck out. Finally." He subtly shifted, placing himself slightly more between Sukuna and Dante. "Not playing. Just… wrecked."
Sukuna took a step closer, the movement silent, predatory grace personified. Shadows seemed to cling to him. He stopped a few feet from the bed, those four eyes absorbing every detail: the bandages peeking from beneath the loose sleep shirt, the unnerving stillness of the borrowed grey eye visible beneath half-closed lids, the unnatural pallor. "Better than he was, I take it?" he asked, though it sounded less like a question and more like an assessment.
"Kind of," Dabi admitted, the worry bleeding back into his voice. He looked down at Dante’s sleeping face, the lines of pain softened only by unconsciousness. "Physically? Healing, I guess. Slowly. But…" He trailed off, struggling to articulate the deeper damage.
Sukuna tilted his head, a predator considering wounded prey. "But the screaming in his head hasn’t stopped. The cage still rattles." He stated it as fact. "He told you. About Cain."
It wasn’t a question this time. Dabi’s gaze snapped back to Sukuna, sharp and defensive. "Yeah. He told me." The memory of Dante’s flat, emotionless recounting of torture and mutilation twisted in his gut. "He went back there. To Hell. Got his… eye." He gestured vaguely towards Dante’s covered socket. "And took care of Cain. Permanently."
A low, almost appreciative chuckle vibrated in Sukuna’s chest. "Permanently. That’s one word for it. Knowing Dante? ‘Thorough’ is probably more accurate. ‘Creative’, maybe." He studied Dante’s peaceful expression with unnerving focus. "Good. That fucker deserved every second of agony Dante dreamed up. Probably deserved worse."
Dabi stared at him. The casual acceptance of such extreme brutality was jarring. "You think that… helped? Carving someone up? Letting a demon…" He couldn’t finish the sentence Dante had coldly described.
Sukuna’s crimson eyes finally lifted from Dante to pin Dabi with intense scrutiny. "Helped? With the physical pain? No. With the broken ribs and the missing wings? Fuck no." He took another silent step closer, the air crackling faintly with latent power. "But with the other thing? The thing that made him rip out that prick’s eye and shove it into his own fucking skull?" Sukuna’s voice dropped, becoming dangerously soft. "With the helplessness? The violation? The fucking rage that’s been eating him alive since Lucifer ripped him open?" He gave a sharp, decisive nod. "Yeah. Yeah, I think peeling Cain apart inch by fucking inch, making him scream, making him beg, making him know who was ending him… that was probably the most therapeutic thing Dante’s done in centuries. Cathartic as fuck. Got the poison out. At least some of it."
Dabi absorbed this, the logic brutal but undeniable. He remembered the chilling emptiness in Dante’s eyes when he’d confessed, the flat tone devoid of anything but cold fact. Not pleasure. Not remorse. Just… necessity. A dark purging. "He had a panic attack," Dabi said quietly, looking back at Dante. "After… after Lucifer. Bad ones. Like he couldn’t breathe. Like the room was crushing him. Eyes wide, seeing shit I couldn’t." He remembered the desperate, gasping terror, the way Dante had clawed at his own chest bandages. "Yesterday, when he vanished… I thought…" He trailed off, the fear of Dante teleporting straight back into Lucifer’s clutches still raw.
"Thought he’d gone to finish the job on himself?" Sukuna finished bluntly. He didn’t wait for confirmation. "Wouldn’t blame you. The abyss was looking back pretty hard." His gaze softened almost imperceptibly as he watched Dante’s chest rise and fall. "Panic… that’s the cage shaking. The beast inside feeling the chains. It’s not just physical wounds. It’s…" He searched for the word. "Soul-deep. Like someone took a fucking chisel to his foundation." He gestured vaguely towards Dante’s head. "That new eye? It’s not just seeing light. It’s seeing Cain’s death every time he closes his real one. Smelling the blood. Hearing the screams. It’s a fucking trophy and a curse rolled into one. Killing Cain was necessary. Doesn't mean it won't haunt him."
The raw insight, coming from someone who looked and felt like pure, contained violence, was jarring. Dabi watched Sukuna. He knew the stories, the whispers about Sukuna’s own brutal past, his power, his supposed death. He saw the way Sukuna looked at Dante – not with the possessive heat he sometimes saw in Vincent, or Hela’s cool calculation, but with a fierce, ancient understanding. A shared history written in blood and fire. "Will it get better?" Dabi asked, the question slipping out, raw with his own helplessness. "The panic? The… haunting?"
Sukuna snorted. "Better?" He seemed to consider it, his four eyes scanning the room as if seeing battles long past. "It fades. Or you get better at carrying it. You build thicker walls. Find distractions." His gaze flickered over Dabi with unnerving perception. "Find things worth staying anchored for." He looked back at Dante. "He’s strong. Stubborn fucker. But the trauma… it’s like scar tissue. It knits, but it’s never the same. And sometimes, it tears open." He paused, his expression unreadable. "You’ll see it. The flinch when he doesn’t expect a touch. The way his eyes go distant sometimes, watching replays only he can see. The nightmares. They’ll come."
Dabi’s hand tightened slightly on Dante’s shoulder. The prospect was terrifying. He’d seen glimpses already – the recoil from Vincent’s abrupt movement, the thousand-yard stare. "He doesn’t talk about it. Any of it. Not really. Just… shut down. Or lashed out." Like telling Hela he’d gotten the eye from a ‘friend’.
"Course he doesn’t," Sukuna said, a trace of dark amusement in his tone. "Talking about how broken you feel? How fucking scared, deep down? That’s weakness. And Morningstars? Weakness gets you killed. Or worse." He tilted his head again, studying Dante’s slack features. "He told you, though. About Cain. The details. That’s… something." It wasn’t praise, exactly. More like acknowledging a tactical move.
They lapsed into silence. The low throb of bass from the club several floors below was a distant heartbeat. Sukuna remained standing, an immovable statue radiating contained power, observing Dante with an intensity that felt invasive yet strangely protective. Dabi stayed on the bed, Dante’s solid weight a grounding anchor against the unsettling truths Sukuna voiced. The air hummed with the unspoken history between the two ancient beings and the raw reality of Dante’s shattered state.
Minutes stretched. Dante didn’t stir. His breathing remained deep and regular, the sleep of utter exhaustion. The borrowed grey eye was still, the stormy one hidden beneath the lid. The bandages were stark white against his skin in the dim light.
Finally, Sukuna shifted. He didn’t move towards the door, but the focus of his presence seemed to withdraw slightly. "He’ll sleep for a while yet," he stated, his voice back to its usual flat rumble. "Body’s running on fumes. Soul’s patching holes." He gave Dabi one last, long look. "Don’t let him do anything stupid when he wakes up. Like try to run the club. Or piss off Hela. Or," he added, a dark glint in his eyes, "go pick a fight with dear old Dad. He’s not ready."
Dabi met his gaze, the unspoken command clear. Guard him. "Wouldn’t dream of it," he replied, the sarcasm a thin veneer over genuine resolve.
The sarcasm earned a derisive snort from Sukuna, a quick puff of air that barely shifted the room's heavy atmosphere. His predatory gaze lingered on Dante’s unconscious form, the faint rise and fall of his chest beneath the bandages. "He told you about Cain, down to the messy bits," Sukuna stated, his voice losing its earlier edge, becoming lower, more deliberate. "That’s… something. A fucking big something."
Dabi kept his hand on Dante’s shoulder, feeling the warmth, the solidity. "Yeah, he did." He met Sukuna’s crimson eyes. "Didn’t exactly paint a pretty picture."
"Pretty?" Sukuna scoffed, the sound sharp in the quiet. "No. But it’s real. Fucking raw. And he gave that to you." He took a single step closer, the shadows clinging to him like a second skin. His expression shifted, the usual sardonic disdain replaced by an intensity that pinned Dabi in place. "Listen, Blueflame. Him spilling his guts, showing you that particular brand of ugly? That’s a neon fucking sign bigger than the club’s logo. He trusts you. Like, deep-down, marrow-of-his-fucking-soul trusts you. And he loves you. Probably more than he’s loved anyone in a fuckload of centuries." He paused, letting the weight of that sink in, his four eyes unwavering on Dabi’s stunned face. "You gotta keep him here. Physically, yeah, for now, in this bed. But more than that. Anchor his crazy ass. Let him heal. Properly."
He jabbed a thick finger towards the bed, emphasizing his point. "And even when he can walk without wincing, even when he starts bitching about running the club again? Don’t let him go picking fights. Don’t let him dive headfirst into the next fucking warzone because he’s bored or pissed. That’s how he ends up back on Lucifer’s slab." Sukuna leaned in slightly, the faint scent of ozone and old blood wrapping around Dabi. "He’s a stubborn, arrogant prick. No shit. But…" He stopped again, his gaze flickering back to Dante’s peaceful face, a complex mix of exasperation and something almost protective flashing across his features. "Given that he loves you? He’ll actually listen to you. More than he listens to Hela, more than Vincent, fuck, probably more than he’d listen to me telling him the sky’s green."
Sukuna straightened, the shadows seeming to retreat slightly from his imposing frame. His voice dropped to a gravelly near-whisper, impossibly sincere. "Trust me on this. He’d fucking crawl through Hell bare-ass naked for you. He’d rip the moon out of the sky if you asked nicely. He will do everything in his power, bend the fucking universe, for you and what you want. Remember that." He held Dabi’s gaze for one more long, heavy moment, ensuring the message landed. Then, the faint curve of his mouth returned, almost a smirk. "Don’t fuck it up."
Dabi just stared, the sheer force of Sukuna’s conviction leaving him momentarily speechless. The raw truth in it resonated deeper than anything Dante had explicitly said. He managed a curt nod. "Not planning on it."
"Good." Sukuna glanced once more at Dante, a flicker of unreadable emotion passing through his four eyes. "Later, Blueflame. Try not to let him smother you." Before Dabi could formulate a response, the air pressure dropped violently. No flash, no sound, just a sudden, chilling vacuum where Sukuna had stood. One second he was there, a solid, dangerous presence; the next, the space by the window was empty. Only the faint scent of ozone and the lingering echo of his words remained.
Silence slammed back into the room, thicker now. The distant thump-thump-thump of the club’s bass seemed louder, vibrating faintly through the floorboards. Dante slept on, oblivious, his breath hitching slightly but evening out again. Dabi looked down at him, his mind reeling. Trust me. He loves you. He’ll listen. He’d rip the moon out of the sky. Sukuna’s gravelly voice replayed in his head. The weight of it settled onto his shoulders, immense and terrifying, yet threaded with a fierce, unexpected warmth. He traced the line of Dante’s jaw with his thumb, feeling the stubble rasp against his skin. The prince of Hell, broken and fierce, loved him. Trusted him with the bloody, brutal truth. His hand tightened slightly on Dante’s shoulder, a silent vow echoing Sukuna’s command. Anchor him. Keep him here.
He leaned back against the headboard, the plush velvet cool against his spine. The city’s neon glow painted shifting patterns on the ceiling. Dante’s head remained a comforting weight on his thigh, the rise and fall of his chest a steady rhythm against Dabi’s leg. He watched the play of light and shadow on Dante’s face, the unnatural stillness of the grey eye beneath its lid, the faint tension even in sleep around his mouth. The bass pulsed relentlessly below, a reminder of the chaotic world outside this fragile sanctuary. Dabi closed his own eyes for a moment, letting the sound wash over him, feeling the solid warmth of the demon beside him. The silence stretched, filled only by Dante’s breathing and the insistent, subterranean throb of the Inferno Club, a heartbeat promising chaos just beyond the quiet door.